It is extremely disturbing. He can’t recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but they’re all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia – the mania he hasn’t felt in years – has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
“I need to find the exit,” he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
“John,” he whispers reverently.
“Fancy meeting you here,” John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but that’s not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
“John? Where are you?”
Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –
“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head.
“Lost, are you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered.
Is John holding his hand?
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
“Here we are,” John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.
***
“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then –
“You don’t remember, do you?”
John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.
His voice is still –
“Oh!”
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.
“Oh,” he repeats.
“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”
“John.”
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.
“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.
“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.
“What took you so long, then?”
“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”
“Clever guy that one.”
“Most definitely no idiot.”
“High praise, love.”
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
(I’ll make this all presentable later. Trying to get posted under the deadline. 😄)
Lin? I got the door open but these bags are about to break-”
Lin peeked out from the hallway in time to see Mako struggling at the door, trying to keep the paper bags of groceries from falling all over the place. She strode over to him and covered his elbows with her hands, unsure how best to help.
Their eyes met, and they both froze.
Flustered, she broke eye contact, only to find herself staring at his lips. When he parted them to take a breath, she startled and involuntarily clenched her hands around his arms.
Their eyes met again. This time, a blink was sufficient to help them juggle the bags and get everything into the kitchen.
The silence between them was only disturbed by the noises of the food she was cooking and the dishes he w was washing. Once, they both stepped backwards and brushed against each other, back to back. Their hushed apologies hung in the air between them… until they didn’t anymore.
Mako finished his task, and she could hear him using a towel to dry his hands and arms.
Then she felt it knock her hair into her face when he must have flung it over his shoulder.
“Oh, sorry for that,” he apologized.
She started to tilt her head, but stopped when she felt his hand alight on her left shoulder, and the closeness of his body against her back. She stopped stirring the food.
Slowly, he used his right hand to pull her hair back behind her ear, as if she were doing it herself. He squeezed her shoulder at the same time as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head.
The food sizzled, undisturbed.
Her mind whirled, caught in the feel of his solidity and warmth. She wasn’t quite sure where his right hand was, but suddenly, she wanted it on her hip.
She laid the chopsticks down and turned the gas down. Before he could move away, she groped behind herself for his hand, covering it with her own and pulling it gently.
Her hand was so much smaller than his, but he gave her no resistance.
On an exhale, she laid his hand on her hip.
He tensed, but didn’t move.
It had been so long since she felt the weight of making a decision like this, from second to second. Every moment she didn’t send him away. Every touch she allowed or encouraged.
Other times had been easier, with people closer to her own age. What was she thinking, letting this …
Man. He was no boy, fresh from school. He had fought for his life, for the life of others.
He had nearly died, more than once.
He had worked hard, and remained true to his ideals. The reports she had from the new chief were good. He had restored his friendships with both Korra and Asami, much as she had (eventually) with Tenzin.
They had both grown over the past few years.
At last, she moved the pan off of the heat and killed the gas.
Around her, above her, Mako remained still. Watching and waiting.
As if trained by an earthbender.
Lin tucked her elbows in close and twisted around to face Mako.
Maybe I can give it one more chance, she thought, her eyes coming to rest on his lips again.
When she looked up, he guided his hand down the back of her arm, rubbing his thumb up and down.
Silently, slowly, she lifted her hand to brush up his chest, brushing the backs of her fingers up the length of his throat. She paused as he swallowed and licked his lips.
The friction of her skin against his electrified her.
And with a wave of decisiveness, she pulled his neck down and began kissing him.
written for today's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: one more chance
relationship: Jayce Talis/Mel Medarda
rating: G (word count: 1,077)
summary: a runaway knight and a queen in the midst of war. A chance at deliverance
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The ache in the cavity of Jayce's chest threatened to tear him from the inside out. Breath shallow by that and the slim possibility he'd suffocate under the burlap sack. Clumps of hair, damp, clung to his forehead.
So far everything had gone to plan, though he hadn't thought much on the rough nature of these soldiers getting a few rounds with him before turning him into their queen. The bag over his head was also excessive in his opinion, but he held his tongue, lest they take it.
A dense grunt burst in his chest, escaping gracelessly as he’s tossed to the ground. He already had bruises dectorating his rib cage and hip bones, what's two more on his knees?
The light above was blinding and he flinched, narrowing his eyes until they could adjust. Then his jaw went slack.
The opulence of the throne room paled in comparison to the one who sat high on the throne. A crown that looked like sunrays decorated elegantly laid locs.
"State your business," she commanded.
The queen's exposed shoulders were adorned with gold tattoos designed not too dissimilar to the paladins of his own armor he abandoned shy of a week ago. When she adjusted her posture, tucking one ankle behind the other, the hem of her dress followed accordingly, moving as water.
A blunt jab at his back startled him to his current predicament. "Y-Yes?" he stuttered.
She chuckled lightly, though it lacked mirth. "If you had any intention on assassinating me, bringing a dagger would not have been sufficient for the task."
"That wasn't—"
"Oh?" Elegant brows lifted at the reply and she rested her chin in her hand. "Then pray tell, why you, a knight of the Artashe Kingdom, would tresspass enemy soil if not for assassination?"
The beatings in his chest quickened, travelling higher and higher until they breeched his throat, threatening to suffocate him there on the spot. Jayce felt every eye in the throne room burn holes in him, especially the fierce and hardened ones of the one with royal blood. He forced the feeling down, steeling himself.
War was all he'd known. For generations such had been the case. Jayce had always done what was instructed of him— that was his duty as a knight to his kingdom. But his leader… sometime… somewhere… he had lost their way. Jayce could no long in good consciousness follow their path.
The war needed to end. And soon.
He could not do it without her help.
"Why should I trust you?"
Her tone didn't give anything way. Though it did make him acutely aware of the dryness and subsequent split of his lower lip. His tongue poked out to wet it.
"You can't," he finally admitted. "While there is information of value I can offer you to help in accelerating this war's conclusion, I know it is a risk to you. And so—" he started, hands clutching at his linen underpants, heavily dirt-stained by the journey of his defection. "I offer you this—" and he bowed low, the thick tresses of his hair sweeping his ears along the way.
At the humble gesture, she regarded him. For a long while no one moved.
Not the knight.
Not the Queen's aide and personal guard.
And not the rest of her audience.
The sweat started to run down the grooves of his spine and the back of his neck felt searing hot. Should he try to touch it, he imagined he'd burn himself. But he held still, waiting.
"Alcetas," the Queen finally said.
There was a gruff yes in response.
"Lend me your sword."
Jayce fought a cold flinch as he imagined the weight of a long sword being transferred from guard to queen.
And inevitably, to his neck.
Before that, though, he felt icy steel resting underneath his chin.
"Raise your head," she said firmly, all the while coaxing him to look upward.
He obeyed; the sheen of the blade blurred in his periphery as his eyes matched hers. Hardened by the toll of war, yet a fierce and unwavering brightness remained.
"I could kill you. Right here and now," she said coolly; almost appraisingly.
"And it would be deserved," he replied. There had been so much sacrificed. Blood and water have become inseparable, staining the earth equally.
Her eyes narrowed and angled chin tilted up sharp. "State your name."
"Jayce. Of House Talis."
"Jayce Talis…" She savored his name on her tongue, then sharpend. "Elora! Alcetas! Clear the room. Sir Talis and I shall commune privately and discuss the terms of his stay."
A soft gasp and grave hum from them, respectively.
The soldiers who turned Jayce in started; one of them opening and closing his mouth as a fish starved for air.
"You doubt my judgement?" she hissed.
He stiffened straight, then fell to one knee. The other followed suit. "Of course not, your Highness," he said.
"Never, my Queen," the other echoed.
"Good."
Only when the room finally cleared did Jayce take it as a sign to stand. "I promise to not disappoint, Queen Medarda."
He was suddenly overwhelmed by a light spirit and something close to secular salvation, her presence a breath away. "I know. For you have no choice but to follow through."
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Long after the sun disappeared into the horizon, Mel rolled over from under the sheets resting her head on top of a firm chest. A hand travelled lazily down the side of a core strong yet soft and she frowned.
A large hand covered hers, bringing the inside of her wrist to his lips. "It's only makeup," Jayce whispered.
"And stubborn to come off," she mutttered. "Removing your shirt was also not in the script."
He shrugged before wrapping his arms around her, bringing her even closer. "Improvisation was always on the table."
She pouted. Fair enough.
"Frightening work today," he praised, kissing her forehead. "Though I can't help but wonder—"
Mel craned her neck up to him.
"Channeling that performance," he continued. "It couldn't have come from anything… personal, now could it?"
The bright laugh bursting from Mel illuminated the darkness of their bedroom. When it settled, she kissed him fiercely on the lips. "Come now, darling, all that matters is we made it on the other side." A brief peck for good measure and she rolled off him towards her side of the bed. "Goodnight, Jayce, we have the river scene tomorrow."
It was dark outside. The sun had set and the shattered moon of Malacyria was the only source of illumination that splattered the world in its bluish hue. Devi stood in the gardens of the palace this time not going to rest by the cherry blossom tree as he would all the years before. No, not this time. This time the tree would not grant him respite. Not when his son's spark was extinguished in that stupid duel. He shouldn't have joined the war, he shouldn't have put his life in the hands of ten paces and rapiers blade.
He remembered it so perfectly, something he could never forget. Something so vile was remembered so perfectly. From the first sight of James lying on the ground bleeding out of his chest, rapier laying beside him to the moment he had passed in his arms to the moment Angel wept the tears that promised death.
He remembered what she had asked him “did you know?”.
He could still feel the sting of her hands gripping his shoulders like a vice.
Of course he didn't know. He was fighting a war against the Pallid Rose. How could he have known his son, the prince of Malacyria and the future of his people was in a duel.
Angel walked up behind him. Dressed in black and pink, Devi turned to face her his eyes that were once filled with hope for a better tomorrow, the same ones that led him to the war against Michaelis now gone, replaced with a lifeless mix of amaranth and dark red. Angel's eyes looked the same. Nothing but a lifeless crystal blue replaced the once joyous eyes she had. Her eyes looked tired, like a smile torn, heavy and stained with runny mascara. Devi held out his arm. Not really he had only moved it by an inch hoping desperately hoping that Angel would hold it tight so he could have a sense of security in this madness. No hand ever came to him. Angel turned away to head back inside. It had started to rain. She always loved the rain but this time she didn't say she just turned to leave.
“Wait!” Devi called out. Angel turned back
“What is it, Devi…” she replied, not wanting to converse with him at the moment.
“Please, beloved, you need to understand… I didn't know he'd be there-”
“Oh really?” She asked, turning back and walking closer to him, " That why is he dead? IS THAT WHY MY SON IS DEAD!?”
“Just listen! I know… I know that I don't deserve you or our children or anyone at this point I've done too much…”
“But hear me out… that would be enough, Angel”
Angel stopped, the dampness of the rainwater grew heavier on her shroud. She clutched it tighter. Staring into her husband's eyes waiting for him to speak.
“If there was a way I could turn back time… if I trade his life for mine. He'd be standing here right now and you would smile…and that would have been enough”
He dropped to his knees gripping the hem of her black dress firmly, not daring to let her go.
“Im so sorry Angel im so fucking sorry…”
“Just give me one more chance…
One. Last. Chance… to make everything right or at least to try to mend this”
Angel knelt down. Her hands cupped Devi’s face and made him look at her. Her eyes were watery, trying to hold back the tears that she kept in the entire evening. And she smiled and that was enough for Devi. He let go of the hem, his hands meeting hers on his face…
“Angel, Do you like it up here? It's quiet up here…”
She almost laughed she didn't want to but she almost did.
“Yes… I like it up here…”
(i had to fix some mistakes, autocorrect was being a bitch)
Dill was focused on the zombie horde, sprinting over to the re-fallen to reposition their barricades when the fighting lulled, re-loading ammo and using every spare moment to catch their breath. Cheese was craning their neck every five seconds, headless of the wandering dead who were wandering their way to Cheese and Dill's brains at that very moment, twisting and turning with the motions of their glaive. Dill was going to kill them.
Two seconds away from being brained, they straightened up with an 'AHA!', loud enough for the stragglers outside the door to take notice. Pointing triumphantly towards the road, they exclaimed, "That's what was bugging me! We're not on Sandistone Road, we're on Elvenhurst!" They spun expertly, lopping a wayward arm off. "It's the wrong sign!"
AN: decided to step my toes into Pitt yet again because why not! This is for the Flash Fic Friday Prompt: One More Chance!
Fandom: The Pitt
Characters: Robert "Robby" Robinavitch, Jack Abbott
(Spoilers for Season 2 of the Pitt)
@flashfictionfridayofficial
"You got everything on you?" Robby was asked as he threw his leg across the motorcycle. He looked at Abbot's arms more than his face that he knew had some kind of disappointment written on it. His bag was on his shoulders tight, the back of it hitting the helmet that was firm everywhere he turned.
The ride to Alberta was still on his mind. He was still making the ride over and he was sure that he had everything that he needed on him. He didn't want to turn back, not after this. He needed to be far away with everything mostly fixable to stand until he comes back.
So he gives Jack a thumbs up, his words not really needed. He was ready to go.
Jack's arms and chest rise up and then fall with his sigh. Robby didn't have to imagine the up and down look he know he was receiving. Because despite any other words that might be thrown his way, Jack's actions always spoke for him. His shoes dragged the concrete as he took two steps towards the bike.
"Alright then," Abbott said, his tone more final than his stance, "take some pictures for me?" His mind was already stealing the way Jack's feet was not still at all, ready to play it when he's on the road rethinking about things he could have done better.
Robby just clicked his teeth together as he reaches into his side pocket, ready to pull out the phone he was using for most of the trip when it near any towers. Except his fingers only grabbed onto some fuzzy bits. He frowned and pulled whatever it was out from his pockets.
Lint greeted him and with the realization that his phone was right behind Jack , back into the Pitt that was supposed to be an afterthought for three months. His own shoulders rose up with all of the tension and stress from today as he lets out a low "fuck".
Robby leans his head back, the night sky above with an occasional color bursting through.
"Baby Jane has my phone." And his last chance to escape clean. His eyes looks towards Jack, finally brave enough to see how his head was tilted sideways.
Right. The helmet Robby was wearing was pulled off and he repeats himself. Jack was more still then, giving him a short nod before turning his heels around towards the double doors of the hospital.
He was more careful to take his leg off of the bike this time. Despite wanting to run the other direction, he pushed on.
Jane was still fast asleep, not even noticing that the phone was nowhere near her anymore. They were back outside within minutes.
"Now, do you have everything?" Jack asked again.
His bag felt heavy enough and now, the phone was sticking near his thigh. Still, Robby didn't throw his body onto the bike just yet. Instead, he grabbed at the other man until something clicked enough to be pulled into a hug.
"I'll come back." He believed that today. "I'll take as many pictures as you need me to."
"Even the bad stuff?" The question was strained against him and Robby kept that near the part of his neck it was spoken into.
And Robby, fourteen hours older than he wanted to be, just nodded.
Rosie’s tantrum is about to reach epic proportions, and John needs to intervene. Immediately.
“It’s impossible! I will never be able to make it before he gets back!!!”
“Rosamund Watson, you can, and you will.”
“I only have one more chance, Dad! He’ll be here in less than fourteen minutes.”
God, do you even know how like him you are?
John looks fondly at his daughter, but she’s too distracted by her distress to observe it.
“Alright, sweetheart. Put that away for a second and come here.”
“There’s no time, Dad!”
“Yes, there is. Trust me.”
Rosie sighs dramatically, puts down the instrument, and approaches John tentatively.
“Take my hands.”
Another sigh, but the girl surrenders.
John squeezes the small hands in his own and smiles down at the tense and slightly anxious girl in front of him.
“Inhale as deep as you can. Hold until I say so, then exhale.”
“Is this a doctor procedure?”
Her smile causes her body to visibly relax, and the tension in the room eases.
“Go on, now.”
After a few minutes, John is satisfied, and releases his grip.
“Try again,” he says softly and places a kiss on her forehead.
***
Sherlock is dead tired and just longs to get home to his two Watsons. He’s been in Paris for nearly a fortnight; hired by one of Mycroft’s associates to solve the theft of the crown jewels in the Louvre. The case had been excellent, apart from one significant thing: John didn’t have the opportunity to come with him.
Another thing that had irked him, was the timing regarding Rosie. A week before his departure, he had started to teach her La Vie en Rose. Tomorrow, she was supposed to perform it at school, which he knew she wasn’t capable of now, due to his long absence. Instead, she had to play one of the easier pieces she already knew by heart.
He feels like he’s failing her, even though John has assured him he’s doing nothing of the sort.
“It’s the Work, Sherlock. And you’re not the first parent who must travel and be away from – “
“But I’m not her parent, am I?”
“Perhaps not officially. Yet. But to her you are. And to me.”
***
His timing could not have been better, John thinks. Rosie has played through the piece nearly flawlessly two times already, and when she’s stretched and had a swig of water, it’s time for the last rehearsal of the day.
“Ready?” he whispers conspiratorially.
“Three is a charm, Nana says,” she replies.
“That’s my girl.”
Rosie lifts her bow and starts playing La Vie en Rose the second the front door closes behind Sherlock. John strains to hear if he’s ascending, but he also needs to pay attention to his daughter’s playing, so he nearly misses Sherlock’s appearance.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes almost inaudibly as tears stream down his cheeks.
Rosie prefers to face the window just as Sherlock does when he plays, and John isn’t sure she can see her Papa in the reflection of the glass surface.
John moves over to Sherlock who seemingly can’t avert his eyes from the playing girl. His hand covers his mouth, which probably is agape, and John decides to slide an arm around the man’s waist in case his knees give way.
***
Rosie, his beloved girl, is playing La Vie en Rose far better than Sherlock thought she would be able to do if he had stayed home instead of running off to France. How she’s accomplished that is a topic for another day or hour. For now, he revels in the beautiful music and how Rosie moves with it instead of standing ramrod straight like a pillar.
He feels John’s arm around him, but Sherlock is too absorbed in the music and the miracle that is Rosie Watson. Next month, his surname will be added, which he still can’t get his head around.
When the last tone has faded away, Rosie sets her violin and bow on the table and runs toward Sherlock. He falls to his knees and opens his arms to her. John mitigates the impact to prevent Sherlock from falling onto his back, by placing steady hands on his shoulders.
“I’ve missed you so much, Papa!”
“And I you, my heart. Your playing was extraordinary.”
“Yeah? Uncle Mycroft helped me a bit, and Dad found a tutorial video online who was really helpful too.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t be angry with him, alright?”
“I promise. For once, his aid was… noble.”
John chuckles behind him, and one of his hands – the left – ruffles his curls affectionately.
***
Later, when Rosie is tucked up in bed, John tells Sherlock about their daughter’s dramatic outburst.
“One more chance? Really, John?”
“Cross my heart. She takes after you, in my opinion.”
“Rude!”
“Truthful!”
“You are insufferable!”
“If you say so. And yet…”
“Yet what?”
“Aren’t you a genius?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Well, then?”
Sherlock sighs mock exasperated, buries his nose in John’s neck and whispers: “And yet, I am marrying you in sixteen days.”
@flashfictionfridayofficial challenge. Prompt: The wrong sigh
Relationship: Titania & Uranus
Word count: 746
CW/TW: Neglect
AO3 link
Caelus wasn't worth her emotions after everything he had (or hadn't) done. No doubt, he just wanted to feel bad about himself like always.
And Titania wasn't going to care any longer.
Titania held her breath, shifting her gaze behind the asteroid belt. Where she used to orbit so- so far away.
Uranus— Caelus, whatever his name was didn't care about her. He didn't care about any of the moons.
"Not right now, Titania."
She tried to be understanding— to talk. But he kept pushing her back, snarling about how 'unfair everyone was.'
Why was she meant to give him a chance when he had never done anything to deserve it? Her planet had always been way too preoocured with staring at Saturn like a lovesick puppy to pay attention to his own moons.
He had never been there— and so Titania had to step in. SHE had to do the job her planet was meant to do, had to look over others and stay awake even when her mind was falling apart, just because one of the young moons was sick. And now everyone treated her like the wrong one here? Unreasonable? Just because she didn't want to see a planet that spent no second thought but to abandon them.
All of the planets did, and it rang with a sharp disgusting between her fingers when she watched other moons crying for their planets. All of them had left without a word. Not concidering their moons to be of any importance. And they dared to look so upset, betrayed to their cores? Like the concept of moons not acting like obedient toys that would take anything without question is something unbelievable.
She thought Europa would understand. Thought that Triton would see the reasoning. After all, they both too, had to watch over little moons because their planets weren't here. What was even the difference if they were orbiting them or not if the planets mostly ignored their existence to begin with? She hated to approve of violence, but she had to admit how right Titan was back when he claimed that "Planets won't listen if we aren't loud enough." That had been proven to be so terribly correct.
Her eyes locked with Uranus' familliar grays. Too far away to see how the grip on his crutches began to tremble.
He looked so hurt, and Titania's throat stung. She was hurt too, but unlike her— THAT planet she had no choice but to suck it up and swallow the feeling of betrayal. Of being worth less that some random guy that he had met not even a week ago. She had to count every moon like a tiny treasure in her arms when they cuddled in the darkness of the furthest corners of the solar system. Too terrified to find out if he was serious about making them into a new set of shiny rings. She had to shield others with her own ice as asteroids kept raining down on her, all hecause of his so-called 'friend'.
Caelus didn't care about his— the moons. So Titania would not spare an eye blink to him, no matter how upset he looked, wouldn't care about him in return. She wouldn't go to him, crying about his behavior, screaming about what piece of trash he was. Caelus wasn't worth her emotions after everything he had (or hadn't) done. No doubt, he just wanted to feel bad about himself like always. A poor little planet bullied for his name— sure, Titania too felt cold annoyance in her chest when she heard 'Your Anus' but it gave him no right to treat them all like this.
"I think we need to talk. After all, you supported Planet X, who was going against us, and..."
"You're gonna lecture me too?!"
He didn't get to cry over being misunderstood if he actively refused to talk even when Titania tried her best to be calm and listen, despite how much she wanted to scream, to tell how much she hated that excuse of a caretaker she orbited. No doubt if the moons did stay in their place he would just find another reason to act like a victim. Why was she expected to worry about someone who had choosen a planet that had almost broke her into pieces?
The sadness on his face was never anything more than a way to make himself feel bad. And Titania was done caring about him.
...
She couldn't care about Caelus when she knew he would never do the same for his moons in return.
She was too far away to hear Uranus' horrified mumble. "Stars... what have I done?"
